


I'm not calling you a liar (just don't lie to me)

by kawabiala



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Sherlock, Lesbian Irene, Non-sexual D/s relationship, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-03
Updated: 2012-09-03
Packaged: 2017-11-13 12:03:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/503357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kawabiala/pseuds/kawabiala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock saves Irene's life in Pakistan. He thinks he's won this round of the game; Irene knows she has.</p><p> <i>"Oh, darling," she said. "This was never about sex."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm not calling you a liar (just don't lie to me)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [koushi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/koushi/gifts).



> See end notes for warnings.

The hotel room Sherlock brought them to was plain but adequate, situated in one of Karachi's newer neighbourhoods. Irene immediately took advantage of the facilities to take a long shower. She'd spent an unpleasant few days in the summer heat with no running water, no fresh clothes, and no air conditioning.

She hadn't expected to ever take a shower again. She certainly hadn't expected to see Sherlock again, a thought that had pained her more than she'd expected. _Amazing how the threat of death exposes ones priorities,_ she thought wryly.

Out of necessity, Sherlock had given her one of his shirts to wear. None of his trousers fit her, and he hadn't bothered to bring any clothes that would fit her. Petty of him, but no one had ever accused Sherlock Holmes of excessive emotional maturity. He was still angry at her, and she hadn't expected otherwise. 

Sherlock had taken a seat on the room's small two-seater couch, reading a sheaf of documents. He must have been aware the second she stepped out of the bathroom and closed the door, but he didn't deign to look up. Barefoot, she walked across the room to stand in front of him, and waited.

"Hello, Sherlock," she said, once it was clear that he wasn't about to initiate any kind of conversation.

He closed the folder he had been reading and put it aside. She thought she glimpsed a satellite printout before he put it away, and filed the information away for later. Finally, he met her eyes. "Miss Adler," he said. He was a study in neutrality, his face and posture neither hostile nor inviting.

"I seem to have found myself in your debt," she said.

"So it would appear," he replied, still expressionless. Irene just smiled.

"You came halfway across the world to save my life. I'm sure you have some ideas about how I can return the favour." She took a step closer, her legs touching his. He tilted his head back to look up at her. "I didn't keep everything on that phone, you know," she said. One more step forward, and she perched on the couch next to him. There wasn't much room; her knees rested on his thighs, and her shoulder pressed firmly against his. "I have material stashed all over Europe. Information. Photographs. Maps. Whatever you want." She reached a hand out to push a black curl out of his eyes. Her fingers traced a path down to his face, coming to rest at his temple. With her fingertips, she tilted his head so she could murmur into his ear. He let her. "Or maybe you came here to finish that conversation we started, just before you left to see that plane," she said, her breath warm against his skin.

Sherlock... laughed. Irene pulled back and stared at him. His eyes sparkled with cold amusement, full of contempt.

"Oh, dear Lord," he said, still chuckling a little. "You didn't really think I came here for you?" He placed his hands on Irene's shoulders, his touch utterly impersonal, and set her back on her feet. She opened her mouth to say-- but he cut her off. "You did, didn't you? Oh, this is rich."

She was standing right in front of him, far too close. A few careful steps took her over to the curtained window, at a more dignified distance. "It seemed like a fairly obvious conclusion," she said. "I didn't see you singlehandedly raid a TTP camp to rescue anyone else."

"You think I want you? I _beat_ you. I'm done with you," he said. The words were harsh, meant to wound. "No, I want Moriarty."

"Moriarty?" Her brow creased slightly. She forced it smooth again. "What makes you think I can give him to you? We're hardly on the best of terms right now." At least, not unless arranging an abduction and execution by the Tehreek-e-Taliban Pakistan was a favour Jim Moriarty reserved for special friends. With him it was hard to be quite sure.

"I know you worked with him for months," Sherlock said. "You met with him. You were allies. You even worked some jobs together in Switzerland, as far as we can tell. You know how he operates with, who he works with, how he thinks."

"Surely there are people a bit closer to London you could have made use of?" Irene asked.

"I would have, if not for the fact that his former associates all seem to end up dying."

"He does have this bad habit of breaking his toys," she agreed. "I've tried to talk to him about it, but..." She shrugged. "Boys will be boys, I suppose."

She turned away from him. Pulling one of the thick drapes open a crack, she peered outside. The street outside was lit, but there were few cars. It was late, already after full dark.

"You know, when Jim told me about the two of you, I thought your brother was the interesting one," she mused. "He has the whole of the British government under his thumb, after all. So much _power_. Delicious." She gave a theatrical shiver. "But then I started keeping tabs on you. One of the greatest minds of our generation, working as a simple detective - and not even a real one. What is it you call it?" she asked, turning her head to shoot him an enquiring glance.

"A consulting detective," Sherlock answered, ignoring the bait, obviously humouring her.

"Yes, that was it." She turned back to the window. "What a waste, I thought, when you could have almost anything you wanted. But then it struck me." She looked over at him again. He raised an eyebrow, clearly bored with this line of conversation, but she took that as sufficient encouragement to continue. "Your brother is so dutiful, you know. So many responsibilities. He cares so much about that precious little kingdom of his that any little push will do to make him roll over. Embarrassing photos, terrorist threats... he is quite vulnerable, when you think about it. I didn't need Jim Moriarty to tell me how to manage him."

Laughable to think she'd convinced Sherlock that she had needed Moriarty for anything. What a disappointment that man had been. She'd been delighted when she found him: pulling the strings of the Russian Mafia, robbing banks in Switzerland. It had been the best fun she'd had in years. He'd been strangely jealous of his obsession with Sherlock when she'd found out about it, but eventually he'd chosen to bring her in on the plot. It had been around that time that she began to understand that there was something very wrong with him. It hadn't taken her long to decide that there were better options for an opponent than one whose idea of winning a chess game was to blow up the game board.

"But you--" She turned to face him. "--you've been more clever than that. No obligations. Hardly any friends, no obvious loyalties. One might even think that you barely have any human decency. A typical person looking for weaknesses would find - nothing."

He smirked. "Are you trying to make me feel special?" he asked. He was about to laugh in her face, she could tell; she could practically feel his contempt growing.

"Hardly," she said. "Your ego is big enough as it is. No, what I am trying to tell you is that -- aside from that doctor of yours -- you still have one more weakness."

"And that is?" he asked.

"You still believe in fairy tales. Heroes, villains, the British justice system. The brave detective, his faithful companion, the damsel in distress. You love to go on adventures. You still like to play _games_." She allows herself a small laugh. "Sherlock Holmes, closet romantic. Who would ever believe it?"

He snorted. "You don't honestly think I came here out here because of some kind of... romantic infatuation." He enunciated the words with distaste. Irene took slow steps toward him, letting her confidence finally show through.

"I think you wanted to make me beg," she said. "You're still playing this game against me, and you couldn't let someone else beat me. You couldn't let me go."

"Did you listen to anything I've said?" Sherlock asked, a hint of petulance in his voice. "You were mildly entertaining to play with - for a while. But we played that game out and I won. You've done nothing but bore me by playing the same tired old tricks all evening." Irene supposed that this conversation had gone rather differently in his head. How had he imagined her reaction? Humiliation? Weeping? Quiet despair, perhaps. Even at the end, he had underestimated her. He had been able to read her, but he had forgotten that she was able to read him.

With measured steps, she circled the couch until she stood directly behind him, out of his line of sight. She knew he must be aching to turn his head to see her, that the potential threat she posed must be maddening for him - just as she knew that he would never in a thousand years give her that concession. "Poor boy," she murmured, running fingers through his silky hair. "You still don't understand."

"What don't I understand, exactly?" Sherlock snapped, no longer attempting to hide his irritation and confusion. Irene smirked, savouring the moment.

"Your superficial temporal vein." She stroked the side of his face with two fingers, not bothering to hide the purpose of her gesture this time. Under the soft skin of his temple, his heartbeat fluttered beneath her fingers, frantic - and damning. Resting her hands on the back of the couch, one to each side of his stiff shoulders, she leaned down until her face was level with his. "I took your pulse - and you let me." She turned her head to whisper directly into his ear. "But then, I suppose you were distracted."

His breath hitched ever so slightly. It was a sign of victory as clear as as a moan of desire, coming from any other man - but this was Sherlock Holmes. This victory was infinitely sweeter.

She straightened with a small laugh and continued her circuit of the sofa, coming around to face him. Her eyes drank him in, cataloguing the signs: dilated pupils, clenched jaw, stiff torso. His hands were deliberately not clenched, but his fingers strained against nothing. He didn't move as she took her seat again beside him, didn't resist as she turned his head to face her. His breaths came fast and shallow now, warm against the bare skin of her wrist. He wasn't bothering to control them anymore. Maybe he no longer could.

She tilted her head, studying him. "You just can't help yourself, can you?" she mused. "In the end, the great Sherlock Holmes is just like any other man: ruled by his desires." She felt him shiver against her hand. This is it, she thought.

But then:

"You're wrong," he said, voice hoarse but firm.

"Am I?" She drew back and raised an eyebrow in inquiry. This close, he would either give in or flee. She knew which one he wanted, but did he?

"You're wrong," he said again, The words came out stronger this time. "I don't want - that. _Sex_." She could feel the warring impulses inside him: the need to escape, the desire to surrender.

"Oh, darling," she said. "This was never about sex."

He tensed, his eyes searching her face. "I don't understand," he said at last. She suspected that it was as much of an admission of total defeat as he was capable of giving.

"This game of ours - it's always been about power," she said. She reached out and and cupped his face with her palm. "About winning. And this time, I've beaten you."

"Let's say that you have," he began, for all the world as though he wasn't leaning into her hand. "What would you want from me?"

"I want you to beg," she murmured into his ear. "Can you do that for me, Sherlock?"

He took a breath, released it. His eyelids fluttered shut involuntarily, and she knew that she'd won. "Yes," he said.

"Yes?" she prompted, and waited. 

"Please," Sherlock said.

Irene smiled.

 

* * * *

 

**London, St Bartholomew's Hospital**

Alone in the dark, Sherlock's mind raced like an engine freed from its burden, spinning rapidly out of control. With no input from the outside world, his mind had nothing to hold on to, nothing to distract it. Every once in a while someone came into the morgue's storage room, footsteps echoing through the metal of the drawer he had been left in, but none of them seemed inclined to linger and converse with each other about what was going on outside. He had no way of knowing if his plan had worked.

Lestrade. Mrs Hudson. John. Over and over, they passed before his eyes, killed in a thousand different ways. Had he been good enough? He'd been sure he'd thought of every eventuality, but while that might have been sufficient against a normal opponent, it might not have been enough to fool Moriarty. Even beyond the grave, Moriarty was different. Cleverer. Better.

Better than Sherlock? Maybe.

A faint scraping sound; a key in the lock of the morgue's door. He heard the click of the door handle, then the slight scraping sound of it opening. The click and scraping of it closing and being locked again. Footsteps - familiar ones this time. Molly, at last. Light shone into the blackness of the morgue drawer, pure white and blinding, enveloping him completely as the drawer slid out of the wall. His eyes blinked against the sudden brightness after hours in the dark, struggling to focus on her face.

"Tell me what's happened," he said as soon as he was all the way out. He sat up, letting the white sheet that had covered him pool around his waist. Molly's face was white and drawn with stress, her eyes reddened. Fear and anxiety, exhaustion, determination... was there grief there, too?

"Everyone is fine," she said quickly, relieving him of his first concern. "Well - not everyone, of course. There was no body on the roof, but forensics found blood and brain matter on the ground up there that matches the samples you got me." She swallowed. "He is dead, isn't he?" she asked, a need for reassurance obvious on her face.

"He blew his brains out right in front of me," Sherlock said evenly. "He's dead. I don't suppose the police have any idea who took his body?" Molly shook her head. "Typical," he muttered. "Where are my things?"

"In there." Molly pointed to a cabinet across the room. Sherlock swung his legs down to the chilly tile floor, putting the sheet to one side. Molly turned her head away as he stood up, colour rising to her cheeks. He ignored her embarrassment, walking across the room barefoot and naked to retrieve the things he'd asked her to stash for him. They were all there, inside the bag he'd prepared earlier: clothes, shoes, hat, fake identification, cash, a disassembled pre-paid mobile phone. He made sure everything was still there, then started pulling on his clothes.

Even with his back to her, Sherlock could sense the questions burning inside her, about to burst out. Molly would not have made the choices he had. She would never have been prepared to let her friends and family spend months, maybe years, thinking she was dead. She would never have accepted that there was no other way. But then again, sweet, caring Molly had never caught Moriarty's interest in her own right. He had never cared enough about her to go to the trouble of utterly destroying her. Sherlock almost wished that Moriarty were alive and well again, just so he could have the satisfaction of telling him that it had been Molly's efforts that had been so key to defeating him in the end.

"Are you going to tell them you're alive?" she blurted out after a few moments of silence. Sherlock didn't need to ask who. There were only so many people who cared about him enough to truly grieve his death, and Moriarty had known nearly all of them.

"I hardly see the point," he answered. His fingers didn't falter as he buttoned up his shirt, a monstrosity in plaid that Sherlock Holmes would never have willingly worn.

"Lestrade was in earlier," she said. "He's just been put under suspension, but I think he needed to see that Jim - that Moriarty was really dead. He blames himself, you know." She paused, waiting for a reaction. She didn't get one. Of course Sherlock knew. Lestrade would blame himself, but he would be alive. "Your brother was in too. He wanted to see the body. Your body."

Sherlock turned to face her, suddenly interested. "Was he convinced?" The fake should have been good enough to fool even Mycroft, but all it would take was one false note in Molly's performance to reveal the whole deception.

"I couldn't tell. He didn't seem to react, but he forgot his briefcase in the autopsy room when he left. His assistant had to come and get it. I assume that's... not normal for him?" 

Mycroft, who had the entirety of the British empire numbered and indexed in his head, who had never mislaid a single pen as far as Sherlock could remember. "No," he said abruptly. He turned back to the bag, pulling out a short, ugly plastic raincoat and shrugging it on.

"And John-" Molly began, and paused; searching for words, waiting for a sign of curiosity from him. After a few seconds she continued. "He had to be sedated for shock, before we sent him home with your landlady. He kept saying - he said you made him watch you jump." She was hoping for a denial, for Sherlock to say that it had been John's shock talking, for him to give her some kind of kind fiction that would help her sleep better at night.

"Yes," he said. "I did."

He could hear her breaths, ragged and angry. "Why? Why would you do that, Sherlock? You didn't see him when they brought him in, but I did. He was absolutely wrecked. Why couldn't you have been kind for once in your life and spared him seeing you die?"

Sherlock was suddenly tired of her - of everyone - telling him how much he should care about _feelings_ when there was so much more at stake, when emotions could only cause more damage.

"Because it was the only way!" he shouted. "Because John would never in a thousand years have believed that I killed myself of my own free will unless he saw me fall with his own eyes. He would have gone digging in his usual obvious fashion, until it got him killed. Him, and Lestrade, and Mycroft, and everyone else you want me to _care_ about. My death is what keeps them safe, and I'm not going to put their lives at risk just for whatever sentiment you think I should feel."

His hand shook slightly, he noticed distantly; with an effort of will he forced it to stop. He expected Molly to backtrack, to apologise, but all she did was look at him with something like sympathy in her eyes.

"They won't thank you for making that choice for them," Molly said softly.

"I don't want their thanks," he said testily. He's known ever since he realised how far this game would have to go, that he might have to break something he would never be able to repair. Mycroft, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson would be able to forgive him, he thought, but John might not. John would be alive, he reminded himself fiercely. That was the important thing, and if he didn't understand Sherlock's reasoning, then there was nothing Sherlock could do to help it. He had done the only right thing. The facts should have comforted him, but the thought still hurt. _Sentiment,_ he thought with resignation, and shouldered his bag.

He paused at the door and turned to face her. "Thank you, Molly," he said, with effort. "You did very well. I... appreciate your help." The words sounded foreign and stilted even to him, but she seemed to understand the gesture for what it was.

"You're welcome," she said, and bit her lip, clearly wanting to say something else. It would have been quicker to take his leave before she came out with whatever doubtless saccharine remark she was composing in her head, but after everything, he supposed he owed her the chance to get it off her chest. "Sherlock -- I don't know what you're going to do, but can you at least tell me that whatever it is, you won't be doing it alone?"

 _What difference does that make,_ he almost said, but paused. He thought of Irene, anonymous in a hotel somewhere in the world, doubtless watching the news and waiting to hear from him. Waiting to see if the game was still on. "I won't be alone," he said instead.

"Good," she said, her relief visible. She had been worrying about this, Sherlock realised. Of all the things Molly should have been concerned about - her job, her _life_ \- whether or not Sherlock had help on this venture should rank well below the health of her cat. One more example in an endless series of human irrationalities.

She cleared her throat, and Sherlock remembered that he'd been standing at the door, his fingers on the key, for a few moments too long. "I'll look in on them," she said. "Every few days, I promise. They'll be okay, Sherlock." The last part was a lie, or at the least an untruth, but she said it with enough conviction that he knew she intended to make it true. He needed no deductive powers to know that there was a lot of tea in John's immediate future.

"Thank you," he said again, his words coming out with more sincerity than he'd intended. He turned the key in the lock and opened the door to the deserted hallway. "Goodbye, Molly Hooper."

"Stay safe, Sherlock," she said. He gave her a final nod, and was gone.

 

* * * *

 

The streets of London shouldn't have felt any different now that he was a dead man, but Sherlock didn't think it was fanciful to feel that danger lurked on every corner when, in fact, it did. Every passer-by and CCTV camera was a potential snitch, ready to reveal him to his brother, to Moriarty's people or to the press. He caught glimpses of television screens through shop windows as he made his way away from Bart's. The ones tuned to the news seemed to be cycling through stock footage of him from old cases. _Damn John's blog,_ he thought irritably. How much easier it would be to take care of the remnants of Moriarty's network if it weren't for this damnable celebrity, if he were free to stay in London.

Several blocks away from the hospital, Sherlock paused in the shadows between two buildings. He pulled the phone out of his bag, inserting the card and battery and turning it on. There were no contacts programmed into the phone, but the number he needed was stored securely in his memory.

 _I'm not dead. Let's have dinner._ he typed, and pressed send.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from a song by Florence and the Machine.
> 
> This was going to be purely Irene/Sherlock, but after rewatching Scandal I found I had a lot of thoughts about how his encounters with Irene would have changed Sherlock in some very profound ways - many of which he isn't ready to admit even to himself yet. I took the opportunity to extend the morgue scene a bit, to show how that might affect his interactions with others, Molly in particular.
> 
> Warnings: Physical overtures to an asexual character that could be interpreted as sexualized. Touching with dubious consent.
> 
> Comments & concrit are welcome.


End file.
